Anni Bird, A Clockwork Orange fan vic
by Zandoz
Summary: A fiction based on the world in the book A Clockwork Orange. This follows a young girl and her group of lady droogs as they make their way in the dystopian world of a decaying future. ADULT THEMES AND VIOLENCE.


Welly well, fine readers, here to slooshy the words of yours truly, thou curious brothers and sisters of mine? You lewdies who no doubt have viddied the story of the great and terrible Alex on the telly or in the papers, no doubt? Sloosh well, fair readers, and heed the words of ol' Anni, for that is me.

The rotten old world still spins, dear ones, but the starry deds and baboochkas hate us, the young, and work hard making sure we know how worthless and unneeded us nadsat are. They suck up all the jobbywobs and Stateaid and send us off to gloopy wars and they won't go out after dark. O no! Because we get our own back on them, don't we, droogs? We make 'em fear the dark and the shit that they have caused with their greed and laziness and just all around suckness.

Alex was not the only one leading droogs, and it wasn't all for the vecks. Us cheenas have our part to play, though I was but a young devotchka when this loverly story begins. I was oh, 16 summers down or so, and I so so loved catching bandas at the Superdome or at one of the nice clubs. It was a year afore that, that I had my revelation. I decided that I, Anni, would be no plaything to any filthy bratchny and I wouldn't be no globbering bird boo-hoo-hooing and wishing for more.

A nice looking veck accosted yours truly, O brothers and sisters, as I was coming out of the Filmdrome after seeing a nice horror movie. He asked me to come back to his flat with him, but I was due back home, as P and M (that is, Pa and Mum) would be expeculating yours truly anytime. He then asked so very nicely if he could walk me partway seeing as how I was a young devotchka all by her lonesome. Little did I know, fair readers, what this chelloveck had in store for your narrator. He pulled me into a dark alley to razrez at my well-pressed platties, wanting some of the old in-out, in-out by force, if need be.

Well! Yours truly didn't take too kindly to this treatment, shall we say. I had on my person my mechanical-action umbrella, which I brought down on his litso and shiyah (neck for all you plebians) and the krovvy did flow, the red, red, krovvy. And he punched me in MY litso, that scumdrel, he did! My rot was busted and all, and I spat out my own red juice onto the cracked pavement. So then I put the umbrella through one of his glazzies, and did he howl, yes! He fell onto the ground crarking and creeching and making all sorts of noise, but nobody came. He crawled and sobbed and I liked it, O my brothers and sisters.

I liked it verra, verra much.

So then, fast forward a year later, when I and my droogen ladies Mil, Lori and Shiv, had visited the Superdrome to see that hot banda Leeds Cross and the horrorshow big light-show and spec-tackle, and we were all out of cutter. Nothing to buy synthemesc or munchies with! And we spotted a dumb goober all alone walking, head down. A real sophisto, he looked, like someone from the Uni or the telly station. Someone with some pretty polly for us to take.

We were decked out all groovy-like, I with my tights and tiny mesh skirt and boots, Shiv with her jeans ripped holey and form-fitting (for she was a tall Amazon cheena, that one was) and Lori and and Mil in their brightly-colored cravats and and long skirts. And boots of course. Boots for kicking.

I with my trusty umbrella, Lori with her cane, Mil with her spiked knuckledusters and Shiv, welly well now, with her dagger, of course! And we approached yon well-dressed young sophisto, all batting eyes and heaving bosoms. And he smiled, he smecked and he smiled at us, even when we took him by the arms and led him to a street we knew to be deserted this time of night. And it was only then he began to feel like he'd made a terrible, terrible mistakey.

My umbrella entered his shoulder like a knife through butter, and when removed was covered in right horrorshow red. The gals joined in the revelry, cane on flesh and thud-thudding against bone, and the malenky veck was on the ground retching and giving up the krovvy real horrorshow. Mill decorated his gloopy litso with the knuckledusters and Shiv giggled as she always did, giggling and cutting him with her blade. "Enough!" I said after a few minutes, and we set to work cleaning him of valoobles. He had quite a bit of pretty polly on him, an old pocket-watch on a chain, looks like real gold. Some rings, a credit card which we ignored. No traces, no e-trail to be caught, no sir! Plenty of filthy lucre though, enough for spiked rum and synthemesc and meat pies and teacakes for all!


End file.
